


A Lover's Eulogy

by sunaddicted



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Body Horror, I know you all hate it lol, M/M, POV First Person, Poor Tyelpe, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t bleed on my armies as you float in the wind as my banner, Tyelpe”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lover's Eulogy

_A Lover’s Eulogy_

I loved you so much, so deeply. I loved you against the history etched in my blood - the blood of my ancestors you so carelessly spilled in the name of an utopia a burnt and selfish god fed you. I loved you despite the plummeting aura of darkness pooling around the fair shape you used as an enticing mask, averting my irises from the truth in the name of a childish faith a lover should have in the other - a faith you betrayed: not once, but a million times while tender smiles blossomed on your lips and the Sun raised with the only purpose of caressing your face with its golden tendrils.

I love you still, even as blood drips from gaping and torn wounds you impassively inflicted, the economy and grace of your actions screaming of well-worn practice as you choreographically handled the weapons you forged just for me - just for neatly sliding through my flesh, artistically drawing crimson ribbons across my tanned skin, effortlessly severing taut tendons, surgically cutting off blood-plumped veins.

How many did you cruelly torture before me? Countless shrieks of terrified victims and long-forgotten captives drum against my skull as if trying to escape its bony prison; bloodloss and migraine white out the edges of my vision and drag me closer to the army of evanescent ghosts waiting for me, ready to shout at me for being so blind, so foolish.

I could have prevented this.

I still can, somehow.

“Where are the rings, Tyelpe?” Your voice has dipped lower, sharper and uglier than the one that used to whisper loving nothings into my ears as I shivered through my orgasms, praying to a name - yours - that never existed. Annatar, Lord Of Gifts; I stupidly thought the Valar had sent you to relieve the loneliness slowly munching at me, gnawing through what little emotions were left into my arid soul - I was wrong, I always am: you are your own master since the Great Enemy you worshipped was shackled to the Door Of Night, his gaze condemned to contemplate the endless Void, and you are as terrible as a gathering storm with its cracking and divine energy.

“Where are the rings, Tyelpe?” You’re relentless, the same question leaves your throat like an absentmindedly learned anthem that easily slips from your vocal chords, almost as second nature as breathing. I loved your dedication as much as I’m loving the cruelty you’re pouring over me like frying oil, corroding my battered and useless body to the bones - hungry, you’ve always been hungry for more; even in your previous lives, you couldn’t settle for being yourself.

A disgusted sneer ruins the gorgeousness of your features and fabled flames lick at your golden hair: Sauron is slowly being brought forth by my idiotic stubbornness. I’d say that the red is also seeping into your chocolate-warm irises but there’s a thin veil of blood colouring my vision, turning the room into a bloodbath - the room that probably is pristine and obsessively cleaned to soothe your manic need for order.

You don’t ask again; it would sound like begging to your ears and you won’t lower yourself to pleading for answers from me: you already soiled yourself enough laying in the same bed as I, our limbs entwined together by drowsiness and sex-stinking sweat. There’s only a long metal pole elegantly balanced between your hard-working fingers, its sharp point resting at the mouth of my stomach “Don’t bleed on my armies as you float in the wind as my banner, Tyelpe” It’s your last retort and if it didn’t hurt, I would laugh because this is such a weird and creative way to go.

The pain is white-hot as it drowns in my abdomen, reaching for every nerve in my body.

The brief feeling of your dry lips brushing my brow is a merciless balm.

I loved you so much, so deeply. 

I’ll keep loving you, from the misty sadness of the Halls of Mandos.


End file.
